Hit Me
by Ryl
Summary: Two alpha-males unexpectedly meet in a bar and bond. Almost.


Warning: coarse language

Hit Me

He entered the bar slowly, taking in every detail. A cop bar, he mused. He hadn't expected that. It did, however, explain the figure slumped on a bar stool, elbows on the bar. Joe Morelli wasn't looking good. Of course, Ranger wasn't at his best, either. It had been a long, stressful week. Stephanie's stalker had been crafty, and nearly out-witted everyone. Everyone but Stephanie. He winced, remembering why he was at a bar in the first place.

Ranger sank down on a bar stool. "Morelli."

"Manoso." Joe didn't bother looking up.

Well, it wasn't as if either of them were there for conversation. Ranger grimaced, remembering Tank's steely glare and crisp words. "Get out of the building for a few hours. Don't come back until you've decompressed," his right-hand man had ordered. He was right, of course. Tank usually was. It's why he was the right-hand man. But decompressing wasn't as easy as it used to be. As it should be. In fact, it was becoming harder every time.

When the bartender approached him, he spoke slowly and carefully. "Whiskey. Neat. One at a time. Not more than four."

There. No one could say he wasn't planning ahead. Staying in control.

Morelli's snort dragged him from his self-congratulation. "That stuff will kill you," the cop said.

Ranger turned to him, his face emotionless.

He snorted again. "You're new to this. Take it from a pro. You want to go easy on the whiskey."

Morelli was giving him advice. _Morelli_ was giving him advice. Morelli was giving him _advice_. He shook his head. Probably the stress was getting to him. Surely Morelli wasn't _that_ stupid. Auditory hallucination, most likely. He'd seen this happen before, in the field.

Morelli seemed to sense that he'd gone too far. With a shrug, he turned back to his drink and fiddled with the umbrella. When the bartender placed a drink in front of Ranger, Morelli lifted his in a silent toast.

Ranger started to raise his own glass, but froze when he saw what Morelli was holding. Frothy pink liquid filled half a glass, topped by an umbrella. A freaking umbrella! Ranger's eyes narrowed imperceptibly to show his disdain.

"Laugh all you want," Joe said dully. "Takes a real man to keep drinking this and coming back for more." He held Ranger's eyes as he downed the drink. "Good stuff," he choked out, his voice raw.

Ranger glanced down at his whiskey, then called the bartender back. Two could play this game. If Morelli wanted a pissing war, he'd be happy to oblige. "I'll have one of those," he said, pointing to Morelli's drink.

"One Bombshell, coming up," the bartender said, a sympathetic smile on his face.

Bombshell? What the...

"Cupcake," Joe snarled, his voice thick. "It's called a Cupcake."

The bartender shook his head. "Not when a man in black orders it, it isn't."

Ranger stared down at the new drink in front of him. The pink, frothy, umbrella-embellished drink. Shit. This looked worse than a freakin' pina colada. He tossed it back, surprised by the thick texture and unusual flavour. Within moments, he felt some of his tension start to ease, and he reminded himself to go easy on the frou-frou drinks. No telling how much alcohol was hidden in them.

He met the cop's eyes. "Not bad."

Morelli shuddered, feeling the effects of the drink. "It grows on you."

They sat in silence, staring at the pink-stained glasses in front of them.

"She really okay?" Joe finally asked.

Ranger nodded. "No concussion this time. Just a headache. A few bumps and bruises."

"I don't know how she does it. Her car exploded. Exploded! And she's fine." Joe shook his head in disbelief, then rubbed his hands over his face.

"It was close," Ranger admitted. "If she hadn't hit that squirrel and decided to check on it..." He winced, thinking about how close Stephanie had come to dying.

"Wait. She's alive because she stopped to check on her own road kill?"

Before Ranger could nod, Morelli was signalling for another drink. "Unbe-freaking-lievable. You want another?"

What the hell. Why not? Before he could respond, the bartender had two drinks in front of them.

"I have standing orders to keep 'em coming when the other men in black are here," the bartender explained.

Ranger raised a brow. He'd known that his men had recently discovered this bar. Obviously, it hadn't taken them long to develop a relationship with the bartender.

"They come here often?" Ranger asked, eyeing his drink. If it didn't have an umbrella, it might not be so bad, he thought.

The bartender shrugged. "Mostly after something they call Bombshell duty. That's how the drink got its name."

Ranger choked on the pink liquid.

Ignoring his patron's obvious discomfort, he added, "Some nights are worse than others. The bad nights, I hear a lot about someone called Grandma Mazur."

Both men shuddered.

"It's called a Cupcake, Phil," Joe insisted. "See? It's pink. It's sweet. It goes down smo--"

Joe's description stopped abruptly when Ranger's fist made contact with his face.

The bartender surveyed them, his eyes narrow. "Am I going to have trouble with you two?" he asked.

Morelli rubbed his jaw and glared at Ranger. Ranger swore under his breath. Beating the crap out of the cop over a damn girlie drink probably wasn't the smartest move. At least, not in front of witnesses...

"No trouble," Ranger said. "Won't happen again."

Morelli grunted, accepting the apology.

Ranger settled back, staring at the glass, feeling mellow. Crap. Mellow!? How much alcohol could there _be_ in a freaking fairy drink? It was _pink_! And it had an umbrella, for Christ's sake!

"She's really getting to you, isn't she?" Morelli asked. "I always wondered how you held it together. I mean, I think you've seen her in trouble even more times than I have. This is how you deal with it?"

Shit. _Was_ this how he wanted to deal with it?

Shaking his head, Morelli let loose a low, bitter laugh. "You have no idea what the fuck you're doing. That's just perfect. She thinks you're Batman, and you're in a bar, trying to forget how close she came to dying."

He was right. He'd punch him in the face a second time before he'd admit it, but he was right.

Morelli kept talking. "I thought being SuperCop would be enough for her." He snorted. "I couldn't even begin to keep up with her escapades. Then I thought you might be better for her. She always said you were a cross between Rambo and Batman. Looks like you're not fairing much better than I did."

Damn. Right again. And Morelli looked happier about it than he should. No. This couldn't be right. "She's fine," Ranger reminded them both. "She got herself out of her mess almost completely on her own."

"Yeah." With a deep sigh, Morelli asked, "What about next time?"

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. He signalled the bar tender. "Just bring the bottle," Ranger instructed him.

With a curt nod, the bartender plunked a plastic bottle in front of them. "It's on the house tonight, guys. The drug store is giving me a really good deal on Pepto Bismol."

Ranger picked up the bottle and examined it. Sure enough, the thick pink crap in the bottle matched the thick pink crap he'd been drinking. Damn. When Morelli slid his glass closer, Ranger topped off both their glasses.

They raised their drinks in silent salute.

Author's Notes: Thank you to Stayce and Mary for editing and for laughing in all the right places.


End file.
